


twenty-one guns

by starscry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Related, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starscry/pseuds/starscry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanzo has been haunted by ghosts all his life. The phantoms of his past, the lingering presence of his brother - he just never thought he would be haunted by a <i>real</i> one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty-one guns

There’s a long, whining whistle that precedes the explosion. 

They’re in the midst of a fight, he and Jesse back-to-back, respective weapons raised and ready to fire. It was supposed to have been something simple - an in-and-out mission, not much of a fight. Clearly, someone had done their recon wrong.

Enemies flank them on all sides. It’s nothing they can’t handle. They’ve been in this position before. Everything changes when the bomb is dropped from the sky, hurtling down too fast for them to run away.

The explosion is massive. Shrapnel flies everywhere, piercing the bodies around them. Whoever had dropped the explosive clearly had not cared whether they injured friend or foe. Hanzo is stunned, adrenaline flowing through him, blood pumping in his ears; he looks down, sees a piece of metal sticking jaggedly out of his stomach. His breath catches in his throat. He falls.

The last thing he sees is Jesse’s crumpled body, lying on the ground, back to him.

 _Be safe,_ Hanzo thinks. Everything numbs.

___________________

He drifts in and out of consciousness.

“Hanzo?” he hears, once. His eyes are open just wide enough to see the blurry figure of Angela, leaning over him with a concerned expression, pale hair falling in her face and white lab coat hanging from her shoulders. Behind her, he can just make out the telltale red of Jesse’s old serape, the brown of his hat perched upon his head. _Good,_ Hanzo thinks, faintly recalling the explosion. _He is doing well._

He takes a shuddering breath and feels _pain._ It’s sharp and searing and burns in a centralized spot on his stomach. Hanzo reels at the sensation, eyes rolling back, fingers gripping the sheets of whatever bed he now lies upon. Something in the room starts beeping and there’s a loud curse in German. He falls back asleep.

___________________

The second time he opens his eyes, McCree is standing over him, looking down with half-lidded eyes and a tender expression on his face. Hanzo breathes out, then breathes in, expecting the same searing pain as before; this time, the pain is just a hard ache that hovers in his stomach, pain rising and falling with his slow heartbeat.

“Jesse,” he murmurs, and tries to reach a hand up to touch the other man, but his arm feels like a numb and boneless two-ton weight. Jesse simply shakes his head at Hanzo, whispering _shh_ and _don’t move right now, baby_ and _go back to bed._ He lifts a hand and cups Hanzo’s cheek, thumb stroking tender circles upon his skin. Hanzo can barely feel the touch - it’s faint upon his skin and incredibly cold. Jesse’s fingers feel like a whisper.

He falls back asleep.

___________________

“How are you feeling, Hanzo?”

He opens his eyes once more to Angela smiling sweetly down at him. She has a long, plastic tube in her hand and is feeding some sort of fluid into it; Hanzo follows it with his eyes to where it ends in a needle slid into the skin on his wrist and taped firmly down. An IV, then. 

His eyes are much clearer this time. Things are not blurry like they were when he previously opened them, and he can finally gauge his surroundings. Hanzo notices that he’s tucked into a hospital bed, rough, sterile sheets wrapped around him. He’s wearing an ugly blue polka dot-patterned menace of a hospital gown, and his normally tied-back hair falls around his shoulders. Everything around him is white and sterile and cold, and the entire room smells of antiseptic. 

In response to Angela’s lingering question, Hanzo simply groans. His stomach feels numb, but deeper down, it curls as if it’s getting ready to make him vomit. He can’t recall the last time he ate anything - all that rises to his throat is bile, and he quickly swallows that back down.

Angela simply laughs softly, finishing her task of pushing fluids into the IV and standing back to survey him. “You gave us quite a scare, there,” she says. “The explosion was very close to you. We brought you in for emergency surgery - you had a four-inch piece of metal sticking out of your stomach, as well as multiple other lacerations from scrap fragments and a nasty head injury. You started seizing the first time you woke up, so I gave you some propofol to put you back under for a bit.”

Hanzo nods weakly, a hand drifting down to his stomach. He can feel the bandages through the flimsy hospital gown and traces the area lightly with his fingers. 

“You may not feel much there right now because I put a nerve block around the wound,” Angela continues, eyes following Hanzo’s fingers. “It will fade within several hours, and then there may be a bit of pain. Don’t hesitate to call for me - I’m always nearby, and I can administer morphine if you need it.”

Once again, it amazes him how much everyone seems to _care_. He still feels like an outcast at times, a fringe member of the Overwatch team, but all of them seem to go out of their ways to aid him. He barely knows Angela, he thinks, and yet she has just saved his life. Hanzo wonders how the other Overwatch agents have hearts so big, they can care for someone such as himself. He can’t recall the last time someone bothered with him in this way. _Genji_ , the back of his mind bites, and he scrunches his nose at the thought, a wave of sadness mixing with the distinct burn of gratitude in his chest as the thought crosses his mind that these people are almost like a ragtag family, now.

Angela dips her head to him and turns to take her leave, but he reaches out after her. “Wait,” Hanzo rasps, voice hoarse and throat dry. He swallows, takes a heavy breath, and murmurs, “Jes–ah, McCree. He is doing well, too?”

The doctor’s face hardens. She becomes a stone wall, body rigid, fingers white-knuckling the material of her lab coat. Hanzo stares at her, waiting for an answer, and when she meets his eyes, it is almost as if she is staring _past_ him. 

“We will… talk later, Hanzo,” she replies, her voice as tight as a locked safe. He watches her stiffly walk away, shoulders beginning to droop wearily when she opens the door to his room and takes her leave. Perhaps, he thinks, Jesse is not doing as well as he had thought.

___________________

The next several days pass in a blur of bedrest and drugs. Angela continues to administer various medications to help with the pain stemming from his injury, for which Hanzo is grateful. The pills and morphine make him incredibly drowsy, and he drifts from wakefulness to sleep, his body consuming most of his energy to heal itself. A few times, he opens his eyes to see Jesse’s hazy figure leaning over him or sitting bedside, careful eyes watching him - but each time, he falls back asleep before he can talk to the other man.

Finally, the day comes when he can sit up on his own - albeit weakly. Angela allows him to swing his legs around and tentatively step out of the bed. Immediately, he collapses on the ground, but she is right there to catch one of his arms, hands wrapped protectively around his tattooed bicep, and pull him back up with immense strength. He clutches at the IV stand, holding the slim metal pole with tensed fingers and stumbling forward with it in his grasp. It amazes Hanzo how, within the span of a week, his legs seem to have forgotten how they work. He feels like a toddler, taking a few steps forward and teetering on the brink of falling down before righting himself once more. Angela cautiously walks behind him, arms outstretched in case he takes a spill, murmuring encouraging words.

After a long time of struggling steps and tired muscles, Hanzo manages to walk as normally as possible. He slowly meanders down a hallway in medbay, nodding at passersby and all-too-aware of everything the hospital gown _doesn’t_ cover. Weak, tired, he slumps down upon the first bench he comes across and sits there, one hand gripping the IV pole, the other bunched in his gown.

“I would like to be alone,” he mutters, looking up at Angela. For the first time in nearly a week, he is out of that godforsaken room, away from the incessant beeping of machines and monitors and the stinging smell of antiseptic and near-death. Hanzo simply wants to enjoy this moment.

She nods sympathetically. “If you need me, just yell,” she says, and takes her leave.

Hanzo sits there, head leaned back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, breathing in the clean air and enjoying the feel of sunlight filtering through a window high above him and dappling his skin. He is jolted from his reverie by a voice he has longed to hear.

“Hey, there,” Jesse murmurs, a smile dancing upon his lips. For a moment, Hanzo is startled - he does not remember hearing the telltale clink of the other man’s spurs or the thud of his boots as he walks, sounds Hanzo has grown used to hearing. A cigar hangs from his mouth, lit, but he cannot smell the smoke. The archer shakes the thoughts from his head; clearly, the medicine he has been taking is messing with his senses.

The cowboy looks exactly the same as he had the day of their last battle, save for a few differences. Jesse’s hat is tipped down on his forehead, shadowing his grizzled face. Hanzo can see a long, red gash that cuts straight across his cheek like an an arrow. It looks fresh - a wound from the explosion, perhaps. His serape is pulled across his chest, covering a good portion of the front of his body. 

“It is good to see you,” Hanzo says after a few moments. He means it. Having grown so used to nights of idle banter and tender moments spent together, it has been a trial to be stuck in one room with few to no visitors. 

“Knew you’d miss me,” Jesse replies, waggling an eyebrow. 

Hanzo snorts and rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile that creeps upon his own lips. “Do not get too full of yourself.”

“Wouldn’t _dream_ of it, darlin’,” the cowboy teases.

They sit together in comfortable silence, McCree fiddling with the tattered edge of his serape, Hanzo tapping one finger against the cold metal pole of the IV. Jesse is the one to finally break the silence, asking, “you recoverin’ all right?”

Hanzo offers a slumping shrug of his shoulders. “I suppose. I cannot stand being here. Though I know this is a place of healing, it feels more like a place of death.”

A flash of some unrecognizable emotion passes over Jesse’s face; remorse, perhaps? Sadness? Hanzo cannot identify it. The cowboy quickly recomposes himself, teeth beaming once more in a smile. “Least y’got me here t’ keep you company,” he says.

“Yes,” Hanzo murmurs. “At least I have you.”

He reaches out to twine his fingers with Jesse’s as they often do, but the other man jerks back like he has been burned. Hanzo’s lips press in a thin line, confusion and hurt mixing in the pit of his stomach. He feels as if he has just been scorned.

“Sorry,” Jesse mutters sheepishly, rubbing the hand Hanzo had just attempted to grab. “I.. I can’t. Not right now.”

“Do you not wish to?” Hanzo asks coldly.

“No! No, no, it ain’t that. I wanna - believe me, sugar. ‘S just not a good time.”

“Are you still injured?”

Jesse looks down at the floor, gaze focused distantly on his feet.

“Somethin’ like that,” he murmurs.

___________________

Over the next few days, Hanzo slowly begins to regain stability in his life. Angela spends an immense amount of time assisting him, helping him through menial exercises and physical therapy that allow the muscles in his legs and arms to work properly again after more than a week of little to no use. She changes his bandages, cleans his wounds, and gives him detailed instructions about how to do the same once he has finally been cleared to leave medbay; that day, Hanzo thinks sullenly, cannot come soon enough.

Now that he has woken up, flowers and visitors begin to flood his room. At first, he thinks the small bouquets placed in sparkling glass vases are just cheesy gifts from Jesse, knowing how much of a sap the other man can be. But, when he looks closer, small cards stick out from the blooms - various “sorry”s and “get well soon!”s. 

His first visitor is Genji. Hanzo cannot say he didn’t expect his brother to come; it doesn’t make the pain any less raw, though. They still are not on the best of terms, and Hanzo tends to stonewall him. He needs more time to adjust to the fact that his brother is still alive, despite what he did - or attempted to do, at least. The remorseful years spent without Genji become bitterly fresh every time he sees his brother. It is a pain he does not want to bear. 

“Hello, brother,” Genji says, voice low and jarringly robotic. Hanzo grunts his reply, staring up at the sterile white ceiling of his room, the heart monitor to his left, the gray-flecked linoleum floor - anywhere, but at Genji.

His brother does not seem fazed. “How are you doing?” Genji asks. Hanzo can hear his metal fingers drumming against his thighs, a combination of nerves and lingering awkwardness.

“Better,” Hanzo simply replies.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Genji nod solemnly. His brother does not ask any more questions, nor does he leave, until night has fallen and he quietly states that he must return to his quarters. They pass the time in awkward silence; for a few, fleeting moments, it feels like they are young brothers again, sitting together companionably, not talking because there was nothing that needed to be said.

 

McCree visits him often. Hanzo will wake up to see the other man sitting there, staring pensively at him, eyes unfocused and gaze sad. It’s odd to see - he is so used to the upbeat, sarcastic personality of the sharpshooter, seeing him in this state feels almost _too_ raw. Sometimes he lies there, eyes closed just enough to allow him to see the other man while still maintaining the façade of sleep, simply watching McCree.

Hanzo is not an outspoken man by nature; for all the other man is sweet with his words and tender expressions of love, Hanzo simply isn’t. Instead, he communicates his affection with his hands - fleeting touches, fingers laced together, a thumb slowly stroked over a scruffy cheek. This is how he says _I love you._ Having grown so used to expressing himself through touch, Hanzo feels uncomfortable that Jesse will not allow himself to _be_ touched. 

“Just not right now, darlin’,” he says, and Hanzo frowns, brows knit together in a questioning manner.

“What is wrong?” Hanzo asks. Jesse flops a hand dismissively, shaking his head at the question.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Jus’... how ‘bout this: wait ‘til you get better. All right?”

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he nods reluctantly in agreement. If this is what Jesse wants, he will respect the man’s wishes.

___________________

Many things make him wonder. Why has the wound on Jesse’s face not healed? Why is his armor, usually carefully cleaned after each battle, so dirty, still? Why does the other man’s presence send shivers down Hanzo’s spine, like he is _there_ but _not_? When he sees them from the corner of his eye, why do the other members of Overwatch who walk by his room slow down, staring in with knit brows and sad expressions on their faces when they catch him talking to Jesse?

He pushes the thoughts from his mind, chalking the odd moments up to the dosage of vicodin he is currently on, thinking that it must be addling his brain. He makes a mental note to ask Angela if she can lower it.

___________________

“How’re you doin’?”

Hanzo looks up from the book he has been reading, meeting the concerned gaze of one Lena Oxton. He has to admit his surprise - she isn’t someone he has ever been close to during his time with Overwatch, and he hadn’t expected her to show up. Still, in the time they have known each other, she’s been nothing but kind, encouraging, and overbearingly peppy.

He nods a greeting at her, and she tentatively closes the door, walking to the chair that rests beside his medical bed and pointing down at it. “Can I sit?” she asks.

“Yes,” he grunts, and shuts his book.  
She takes a seat, hands folded in her lap, eyes flitting nervously from object to object in the room. Hanzo notices how unsettled she seems - hardly her usual bubbly self.

“I just wanted t’swing by and see how you’re...taking things, I suppose,” she says. The smile on her face is halfhearted at best.

“Everything is well. Doctor Ziegler says I should be out soon, and that if I keep taking my medication and doing the exercises she has given me, I will be able to resume my training with the rest of the team.”

“Ah - that’s. That’s good, love,” she says, and she nods absentmindedly, as if that is not the answer she was expecting but one she must accept nonetheless. “Say, some of the others have, um.. Well, they’ve seen you talking, some.”

He quirks a brow. “Yes. I have had several visitors stop by.”

“No, no, no,” Lena says, rapid-fire syllables echoing each other. “I mean, they’ve seen you talkin’ to yourself. Are you sure everything’s peachy? You can tell me anything, love. Promise. We’re all just..worried for you, y’know? With everything that happened in the explosion, ‘n all.”

Talking to himself? Hanzo did not remember doing any such thing; but, he thinks, perhaps he might have when he drifted in and out of consciousness due to the medication. “I am fine,” he replies, blunt, and stares the young girl down.

Lena flushes a bit, bobbing her head up and down quickly in understanding. “Right! Right. Just wanted to make sure. I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. I.. I know it’s got to be tough to deal with, but you’ll make it through this.” She smiles sweetly and gives him a good-natured pat on the forearm, waving her goodbye and holding a thumb up genially. 

Hanzo snorts, shakes his head, and looks down at his book once more; he wonders what that whole exchange had truly been about.

___________________

When he wakes up later that night, McCree is sitting by his bed. For a moment, Hanzo thinks he catches the glint of the moonlight that streams through the window reflecting off tears in the sharpshooter’s eyes; whatever _was_ there, Jesse blinks and smiles away.

“Heard you talkin’ with Lena earlier,” the man says, and he sucks his lower lip between his teeth thoughtfully, eyes fixed on Hanzo.

“Yes. She stopped by to ask me several questions.”

“Nice girl. She’s a sweetheart.”

“She seemed a bit… on edge,” Hanzo replies, recalling the short conversation they’d had earlier in the day.

“And with good reason,” Jesse mutters. 

“I understand that she is worried for me. But my condition has improved significantly - I do not see why she and the others should care so much, now.”

The other man inhales, gaze cast down as he picks at the blankets of Hanzo’s bed with one hand. Absentmindedly, Hanzo tries to cover McCree’s hand with a reassuring one of his own, seeing how obviously anxious the other man is; McCree jerks back immediately, gazing at Hanzo with same look a deer has when trapped in the headlights.

Hanzo balls his fists at his sides. He doesn’t want to get angry - he truly doesn’t. But this has gone on for long enough. “Why are you acting this way, Jesse?” he asks, teeth grit and and edge to his voice. “Has something changed? Do you not wish to… to see me anymore?”

He can’t help the slight falter in his voice as he utters the words. Finally, Hanzo thought, he had found someone who truly understood him; an outcast, a rebel, someone who had committed as many sins in his life as he had. In battle and in life they complimented each other, a pair with jagged edges that occasionally cut one another, but enough smooth ones to even things out. Hanzo hadn’t given much thought to the _future_ , the _ifs_ and the possibility that they might split up some day; he simply lived in the _now_ , enjoying the shared bond between them and allowing it to flourish in its own way.

“No, no! That ain’t it!” Jesse replied, shaking his head vigorously.

“Then what is ‘it’? Tell me.”

“Look,” the other man started, glancing away and clenching his teeth bitterly, the muscles of his jaw working. McCree lets his hair shadow his face, covering the thin red line on his cheek that has not yet healed, the smudge of dirt on his temple that has been there for over a week now. Hanzo cannot see his expression, but from the other man’s voice, he knows it is one of anguish. “There’s.... I got somethin’ I need t’show you.”

___________________

They walk slowly through medbay, McCree by Hanzo’s side, keen eyes focused on the archer’s smaller frame in the dark. Hanzo matches the other man step-for-step and follows his lead. He presses one hand to his stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing over the ridges of the bandages wrapped around his torso, anxiously picking at their edges. The odd way Jesse had been acting lately has him on edge - he does not know where they are going, nor does he know what to expect.

McCree leads him down winding hallways and up flights of stairs, all through the base. It’s different at night, Hanzo thinks; he can hear the gentle sound of his own bare feet hitting the floor, see the light of the full moon streaming in from the windows, softly illuminating everything in a halo of silver. He hears his heavy breathing and realizes, brows knit, that he cannot hear Jesse’s.

They stop in front of a large, oaken door. Hanzo turns to Jesse, a look of questioning on his face. He has never been in this part of the base, nor does he know what is in this room.

“Why have you brought me here?” he asks, and the other man just inhales sharply in lieu of answering, not meeting Hanzo’s gaze. McCree puts a hand on the doorknob, slowly turns it, and pushes it open.

“After you,” he murmurs.

Hanzo takes a few steps in, eyes adjusting to the faint light coming from overhead. The room is mostly bare, just a few cabinets lining one wall, a row of three paneled windows on the other. 

In the middle of the stark, white room is a coffin.

Hanzo can feel his heart thud in his chest. It’s heavy, loud, and the sensation travels to his ears. His breathing slows. He turns to Jesse.

“Who?” is the only word he can utter. There’s a thought in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to face it - he pushes it back, as far back as he possibly can, locking it away because _it can’t be._ Someone else’s body is in that coffin, he thinks. Hanzo Shimada is not a superstitious man.

“Open it,” is all Jesse replies.

He can’t hear Jesse’s breathing. He can’t hear his footsteps or the rustle of his clothes.

His heart thuds.

Hanzo approaches the casket and presses a hand against it. It’s draped in an American flag, long wooden paneling covered by gaudy red, white, and blue.

His heart thuds.

He thumbs the cold metal latch open, brushing the flag back and pushing the lid up.

His heart nearly stops.

“ _No_ ,” he whispers, a single word of anguish tearing itself from his throat.

Hanzo stares down at the cold, dead face of Jesse McCree. It is him - but it _isn’t_ , is the first thought that crosses his numb mind. The body has been made to look like it is sleeping, eyes closed and a gentle expression on his face, beard trimmed neatly, hair framing his cheeks. He’s dressed up nicely in a suit and tie, the personal awards and decorations he had earned while serving under Overwatch pinned to the jacket’s breast. One hand holds his tattered cowboy hat to his chest. Dead Jesse is rigid, stiff and uncomfortable and pallid, so unlike the languid, grinning man he had been in life. He looks like a doll, rather than a person - something that has been dressed up and made to look like the person Hanzo loved. 

With a shaking hand, Hanzo touches the body’s face. It feels like the skin he has touched so many times before, but there’s nothing there; no spark of life, no warm flush. Just a shell. 

He feels his throat tighten, tears prick at his eyes, stinging and salty. His hand lingers there against Dead Jesse’s cold cheek, shaking fingers curled inward, brushing the now-familiar thin, red line that slices the skin there. Unbelieving. He takes a shuddering breath. This can’t be real, Hanzo thinks. 

“They all wanted t’wait ‘til you were better to have the funeral,” the Jesse that stands beside him mutters, eyes fixed on his own dead body. “‘S been sittin’ in this room for days, now.”

“Why did you lie to me?” Hanzo grates out, teeth clenched.

“I didn’t lie, darlin’. I just… didn’t tell the whole truth.”

“A lie of omission is the worst sort.”

The silence that extends between them is broken only by Hanzo’s muffled sobs. He moves his hand to the hat pressed against Dead Jesse’s chest and, slowly, he slides it out from under the body’s heavy hand. Hanzo clutches at the hat like it’s his last lifeline to the man and hugs it against himself, fingers digging into the scarred leather. This can’t be real, he thinks once more.

“How are you… here?” he asks. 

Jesse shrugs. “S’pose the cosmic forces of the universe decided I needed to haunt you. Or somethin’ like that.”

Hanzo rubs the tears from his eyes, turning to face the man who stands beside him, who, by all means, should _not_ be there. “Are you going to leave me, now that you have shown me this?” he asks. Once the words leave his lips, he decides he doesn’t want the answer. But it is too late.

Jesse’s voice breaks when he murmurs _I don’t want to._

For the first time, the sharpshooter doesn’t flinch away when Hanzo reaches out to touch him. His fingers are tentative, slow, and he cups Jesse’s cheek - but his hand meets nothing. The air is simply cold. He can see his own fingers swipe through the man that is standing there but _isn’t._ Finally, he understands why Jesse has been so reluctant to allow Hanzo to embrace him.

The other man brushes away the serape that has been covering most of his chest, and for the first time, Hanzo sees it - a piece of shrapnel, bent at an odd angle, sunk deep into his chest. It’s a cruel, jagged piece of metal; it looks like a lightning bolt has been struck through McCree. He realizes that the ghost of the man before him looks exactly as he must have when he died. The cut on his cheek, the dirt on his face and clothing, the wicked metal that sticks out of his body.

Hanzo looks at Jesse like it’s the last time he will ever see the man. “How could you do this to me?” he murmurs, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.

“I’m sorry,” McCree replies. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Goddamnit, Hanzo, _I don’t want to leave you._ ”

“Then don’t,” Hanzo says. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Jesse’s. 

The kiss feels like a memory.

**Author's Note:**

> i've been experimenting with this idea for a bit, so I'm happy to finally post it. feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://kenway.tumblr.com) and yell about this ship to me


End file.
